the money, and the sitters of London? Those were the questions that
Phoebe had to answer. 'Would the beautiful Lady This and Lady That
ever have come to Kendal to be painted?--would he ever have seen Lady
Hamilton?'

At this Mrs. Fenwick flushed hotly from brow to chin.

'I rather wonder at you, Miss Anna!' she said, breathing fast;
'you think it was all right he should desert his wife for thirty
years--so--so long as he painted pictures of that bad woman, Lady
Hamilton, for you to look at!'

Miss Anna looked curiously at her companion. The schoolmistress was
puzzled--and provoked.

'Well!--you don't suppose that John's going to desert you for thirty
years!' said the other, with an impatient laugh. 'Don't be absurd,
Phoebe.'

Phoebe said nothing. She heard a cry from the baby Carrie, and she
hurried across the little garden to the house. At the same moment
there was a shout of greeting from below, and Fenwick came into sight
on the steep pitch of lane that led from the high-road to the cottage.
Miss Anna strolled down to meet him.

In the eyes of his old friend, John Fenwick made a very handsome
figure as he approached her, his painter's wallet slung over his
shoulder. That something remarkable had happened to him she divined at
once. In moments of excitement a certain foreign look--as some people
thought, a _gypsyish_ look--was apt to show itself. The roving eyes,